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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114727">A Pretty Gun</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mute90/pseuds/mute90'>mute90</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drabble Sequence, M/M, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:26:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>600</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114727</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mute90/pseuds/mute90</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It reminded Theo of shoplifting, of feeling like he was going to shake apart in the snack aisle, maybe throw up just before they reached the exit and draw attention to the bulges in Boris' coat. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He hadn't. Instead, he'd grown used to taking what he wanted.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Pretty Gun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After Antwerp, Theo and Boris didn’t talk for four months. Their final communication after Vegas had been inane, a friendship dissipating like smoke in the air instead of being hacked like a starving two-headed beast.</p><p> </p><p>It deserved better, Theo thought, as he deleted another half-written text.</p><p> </p><p>Four months gone, Theo found an antique gun at an auction house. It was an amalgamation of reddish wood and steel and he paid for it like a good citizen. He also went back home with the case hidden in the inside of a long coat like he was fourteen again and stealing steaks.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Boris got his message on Wednesday. It came Tuesday, but there was a needle in his arm and then a long, shapeless night.</p><p> </p><p>He had not called Theo in four months because he did not know if he was forgiven and did not know the meaning of forgiveness after so long apart. Wednesday, he opened his message not knowing if he would text back this old friend in his new life.</p><p> </p><p>He blinked and squinted at the photograph: a pretty picture of a pretty gun. No words. Nothing to explain it.</p><p> </p><p>“Fucking Potter,” he breathed. Confusing. Exciting. Still fucking crazy.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Theo knew the smell of vodka and cigarettes the moment it wafted into the shop, now only the undercurrent of a life with scented body wash. He knew the arms thrown up, palms toward the sky. <em> What the motherfuck? </em></p><p> </p><p>"Teach me to shoot a gun," he said, unplanned.</p><p> </p><p>Boris' eyebrows rose and fell, frustrated and fondly exasperated. "Potter… You call me here for that?"</p><p> </p><p>"I didn't call you here," Theo objected. But he had, hadn’t he? He found a message that would bring Boris to his door without having to say, <em> Please come visit. I want to be happy again.  </em></p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Boris threw his arm over Theo's shoulder and steered him into a corner while Theo insisted, “I <em> didn’t </em>call you,” with innocence Boris knew was fake like the furniture. Conman’s innocence.</p><p> </p><p>"You send me picture of gun like death threat." Theo laughed and Boris shook him lightly. Death threat, no. Suicide threat, maybe. Boris trusted Theo with all the things in the world but himself.</p><p> </p><p>He leaned in so they could whisper, foreheads close and sharing air. "Talk to me, Potter: what will you do with guns?”</p><p> </p><p>“What do <em> you </em>do?”</p><p> </p><p>In Vegas, Potter was a great con. Great partner.</p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>His hands shook on the barrel, but Boris was a calm and wise professional criminal that taught better than a college professor.</p><p> </p><p>It reminded Theo of shoplifting, of feeling like he was going to shake apart in the snack aisle, maybe throw up just before they reached the exit and draw attention to the bulges in Boris' coat. </p><p> </p><p>He hadn't. Instead, he'd grown used to taking what he wanted.</p><p> </p><p>His aim grew steadier. His breathing evened out, not natural but matching Boris breath for breath (that was natural enough).</p><p> </p><p>Boris’s chin rested on his shoulder, arm encircling his neck. Proud.</p><p>--</p><p>Boris waited. Theo had to take care of business with the old man, break Snowflake’s cold heart, and learn Russian the right way - in Moscow with Boris refusing to translate even a sign, cheerfully following Theo in circles until he found his way.</p><p> </p><p>A good break for Boris with money, food, and Potter an arm’s length away.</p><p> </p><p>But the job came, finally. Dangerous. Tricky. Needed a great con.</p><p> </p><p>Theo smiled when Boris told him, so sweet and friendly that Boris surged forward and kissed him until the pretty picture crumbled and he was a fierce, biting beast: wicked and happy.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This started out as a drabble about Theo finding an antique gun. Then... Well, criminal!Boreo for life, I guess.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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